


One Day

by EAI



Category: Ben-Hur (2016)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build Messala/Judah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAI/pseuds/EAI
Summary: “I’ll keep you company, Messala. Go to sleep.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. So yeah, I'm one of the few people who adore these two beauties. I've had this story for a few weeks now, I just got around editing it out and publishing it. Enjoy <3 Will be updated once I'm satisfied with the next chapter :D
> 
> Unbeta'd, English is not my first language.

~*~

 

_—cradling the wooden piece close to his chest, and looking between the cracks of the crate, in terror did he witness the heretics abusing his parents’ now cold, and lifeless bodies. They swung their blunt axes, splattering the stone walls with blood, hacking and plopping his mother and father’s heads into a sack, tarnishing his home with oil and light it with their torches. Bounties to hunt, greed and lust to sate – a thousand aurei for a head, they said. Upon the inferno they cackled, spat their insults against the Severus Family as they galloped away on their horses. Left alone but accompanied by headless corpses, he curled to himself in the confines of the wooden container his mother had locked him into. In the silence as dead as everything else, hiding as the amber and embers colored, flickered and floated in the heat and darkness of the night, Messala cried._

“Messala—“

Messala woke up to a startling bright sunshine casting down from high above. His head, back and legs were numb and sore from sleeping and endless running. And the morning was very cruel to him, scorching and drying his skin – oh, the gods must have hated him. Feverishly he recalled the ten beastly heretics who invaded his family house, murdered his parents and the family slaves, and forcibly orphaned him from his remaining relatives. _Orphan_ , such a strong and bitter word. He was the lowly orphan who barely escaped his own province, searching for a fabled sanctuary he didn’t know where. It amazed him still, this close to a month, in which he had survived through the harsh days and nights in strange and desolate places. Pride used to be his strength before, but now, he wasn’t sure if he could live to see today’s sunset. Exhausted to his bones and hungry, he listened to the rhythmic clacking of the horses’ hooves against the dirt and stones; the farmer’s soft whistle of an unknown lullaby, and smelled the grassy stink of wheat and hay. A few slow hours passed, Messala caught a whiff of a luring smell of roasted meat.

When the caravan’s wheels hit a sea of rocks, he sat up sluggishly to save his head. Then at a distance, he finally heard the clamors and bustles of people; bells, bleats and clucks of livestock, and the stomach-grumbling perfume of food’s sweet delight. He turned to his right, where all the commotions came from, and breathed in the wondrous sight of a city his father once told him before bed.

Jerusalem – the Jews’ sacred land of peace and prosperity, and unfortunately, another one of Rome’s claimed territories.

Messala swallowed the lump in his dry throat, and he thought fearfully that he couldn’t afford to be captured by any Roman soldiers nor this caravan’s owner – he didn’t want to be owned, enslaved. Moving to the edge, he slipped and fell off rolling on the dirt. Landing badly on his arm, he could’ve sworn he heard his bones breaking as he grimaced at the caravan disappearing from his view. With his good arm, he fumbled for the wooden carving of goddess Minerva in his pocket, begging her to give him strength at least for another hour before joining his parents in the afterlife. He stood, agonizingly, on his shaky two feet and staggered and limped towards the city’s gate. To avoid the guards, Messala attuned himself along with groups of travelers, locals and merchants (a feat he learned from his father), and hobbled away through the city’s busy marketplace, lowering his head in shame when strangers of young and old stared dolefully at him – for his Roman skin and loneliness. Out there, the Roman army was expanding, wars at large, politics were gruesome, war orphans everywhere. They didn’t seem to recognize who he was, maybe they thought he was just another lost child. Yet he couldn’t steal nor ask even a loaf of bread with all these judging eyes. Messala didn’t know where to head for, perhaps he should find a place to rest and sleep and die.

There should be a fount somewhere, his father told him there was one but yet he couldn’t seem to find any. By the gods, he was thirsty. Following the mesmerizing waves of bricked pathway did he go, up the steps where it was closer to the sky, his sight started to blur. Messala blinked, and rubbed his eyes, everything hurt so much. His consciousness was failing, finally, until his legs gave up and he collapsed.

The last he heard, were the faint mumbles of townspeople and his sweet, sweet late mother’s voice.

_“—Messala, we must say our last goodbye. Bid us farewell, my sweet dear, and please do not cry. Do not forget about me, about your father. We love you, we love you… We love you.”_

 

~*~

 

He stepped on the scrolls scattered all over his floor, pacing restlessly as he tried his hardest to read and absorb whatever wisdom written in the book his teacher had borrowed for him from the local library.

— _Seder Nezikin_ , the fourth Order of the Mishna, consisting myriads of civil matters.

Without any luck, Judah groaned. He snapped his book closed, tossed it away as he flopped on his stomach to the soft, lazy comfort of his bed. Reminded like haunting curses, by his mother and his teacher every day, he was compelled to study all the knowledge in the world where he could have spent his time outside and be like other children. He could have soared and rode the horses at this hour, basking in the summer cheers of the day. But instead, like an absolute nightmare his mother was at most times, Judah was grounded here (just because he had pelted a stout noble’s bully son for calling him dainty and a flower). His mother scolded him, and she did it very passionately, and told him that he was the only male heir to the House of Hur, he should be well-endowed with supreme intelligence and grace, and not brute strength. He knew it would take him years to be as valued as his father, and it was impossible to fill in the man’s shoes. Sure he wanted that, it was his legacy to inherit the family’s wealth and attend all businesses, but he was too young to be an old man.

They decided his future for him, mercilessly. Thankfully, his mother and sister went to visit his grandmother in Athens, or she would have scolded him some more if she saw him procrastinating.

 _“—as long as you live, be happy_ ,” Judah sung softly, _Épitaphe de Seikilos_ , a Greek lullaby he learned from his grandmother. Turning his head to eye the small brass figurine his late grandfather bought for him before he passed, that sat idly on his bedside table – a shape of a horse and tall, elegant and proud, and _free_ , oh how he wished he could be one. “ _Do not grieve at all—“_

Interrupted by Simonedes’ voice bellowing outside his room, followed by voices and loud commotions belonged to his father and the servants, Judah peeked through the complex designs of his chamber door. He saw his father carrying a boy in his arms, seemingly unconscious, hurriedly into the nearby guest room.

“—he collapsed in front of the house, Master Ithamar! Forgive me, I-I—“

“None of that now, Simonedes. Call the doctor, please.”

-

Written books and scrolls forgotten, Judah decided to wait and sit patiently on the steps outside his room, wrinkling his nose at the sharp, acrid smell of medicinal herbs. He stared warily at the old doctor who nodded his head at him and greeted him a farewell. He overheard the servants gossiping about their little guest, a few minutes ago. Apparently, it was a Roman boy about his age – possibly younger. But most likely orphaned and that he and his family were caught in some wars outside Jerusalem. The clothing, despite its worn texture and torn edges did suggest nobility, but he could have easily stolen them. Curious and a little hesitant, Judah approached the guest room quietly and heard his father humming grandmother’s lullaby. Deep, soothing and gentle voice. He witnessed his father nursing the Roman boy, wrenching a wet cloth and placed them on the boy’s forehead. Fever, a terrible one, small body quivering and sweating. Looking so small and vulnerable, and thin. Left arm in a delicate cast, dirt and wounds cleaned off, blistered and sunburned skin.

“Judah?” his father called him, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Is there something wrong?”

Curling his fingers on the hem of his shirt, Judah bit on his lower lip. “What happened to him, father?”

With a sigh, his father stood, cradling a board full of bloodied and dirty bandages. “I do not know, best yet to let him rest.” But then he smiled, tiredly. “Can you do me a favor, Judah? Keep him company while I go see some officials in the city.”

“All right,” Judah nodded, eager to help.

“Thank you, my boy, you’re very kind,” his father replied, ruffling his son’s hair as he left.

Judah fidgeted as he walked into the room, spotting a strange wooden carving in the little Roman’s hand. It was a beautiful piece, hand carved and shaped with delicate and precise design. Relinquishing little Roman’s hold on the piece, he settled them on the bedside table when the boy’s hand struck out to grab his, shocking him. Cold hand gripping his wrist tightly. He was awake, panting and hurting and scared.

“It’s okay,” Judah tried, realizing that he might have some trouble communicating with him. He swallowed, “You’re safe here… M-My name is Judah.”

“…J-Judah,” he croaked, eyes swelling with tears.

He understood Hebrew, thank goodness, he thought. “Yes,” he winced a little as little Roman loosened his grip. Judah proceeded to help little Roman a glass of water, in which he quickly emptied. “May I know your name?”

“Messala…”

Testing out the name hesitantly, Latin sounded so strange on his tongue. Acknowledging little Roman’s name with a smile, Judah promised. “I’ll keep you company, Messala. Go to sleep.”

And so Messala did, drifting back to a fitful sleep, all the while holding Judah’s hand.


End file.
